


Fractured Memories

by Mad_Madame_Mim



Category: Markiplier TV - Fandom, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Dark is a manipulative bastard, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, I'll have to add more probably idk, M/M, Mentions of Death, Panic Attacks, Past Lives, The Author - Freeform, The D.A. - Freeform, The Host is evil too but I don't show it here so meh, mentions of being shot, next time - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 23:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14436354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Madame_Mim/pseuds/Mad_Madame_Mim
Summary: When the Host gets overwhelmed by memories of previous lives, Dark is there to "comfort" him.





	Fractured Memories

                [“Th-the Host-t-t was shiv… was shivering as the m-memories atta… assailed him.”] His words ground to a halt, unable to stave off the images of hands, red and dripping, of the world tipping away from him, the loud _crack_ as his head struck the floor, neck twisting.

                [“Nervously, the Host pulled at his gloves, checking to make sure they were still there. N-normally he could s-stave off the images by conc-centrating on each finger, tugging them f-firmly into place.”] His Narrative was all over the place. A shadowy thing spasming with each beat of his stolen heart, it was so violently upset that even regular humans could perceive it cringing and writhing in the corners of the Host’s office.

                Still, that didn’t mean it was a steady sight. At once it resembled a wyrm, then shattered like glass to reform into a snake, a salamander, a winged, crawling, twisting thing… Sparking and cracking and dissembling over and over, reforming and rebuilding itself in an attempt to regain some form of control as the Host’s body shook and whimpered in his chair, fingers digging like claws into his scalp.

                Glass, glass. Shattered glass and echoes and emptiness. The bloody images were almost soothing compared to that. The very real pain of the memory of the bullet, ironically a wound this particular body he wore _hadn’t_ sustained directly, the cold rush of the fall, the haze of blue and red that swamped the aged pieces of his fractured memory now that he could no longer quite recall what colours really looked like… all of it swirled and taunted and laughed at his trials to calm himself.

                This was bad. He hadn’t had an attack like this since his Subject, Daniel, had shot him. He’d still been the Author, then, not the-

“Host.” Another voice intruded, causing the Narrative to snap angrily, like a cornered, wounded animal.

                The Host went bolt still, an animal trying to hide from a predator. But, of course, Dark could still see him. Desperately, he flung out his power like a net, trying to “see” the room. His Narration was little more than a strangled babble. [“The Host’s bat is in the corner, out of reach. Dark is walking around his desk. Self-assured. He knows the Host can’t fend off the Aura. The Host… The Host can’t _see him clearly._ Dark is… He’s closer. He’s somewhere. A hand… He could strike him and the Host just _can’t move._ ”]

                “I don’t plan to strike you, dear Host.” The hand he’d barely been able to Narrate came to rest on the Host’s shoulder.

                “That’s almost worse…” The Narration failed him, leaving him blind. Dark didn’t deny his words, only sliding the hand on his shoulder up to one of the ones the Host tore his hair with. Another hand gripped his opposite wrist, gently prying both claw-like appendages away from his skull.

                In the corners of the room the struggling Narrative snapped teeth like a broken mirror at the encroaching Aura. Mist thin tendrils reached out to ensnare it, anyway, coiling around and crushing it silent. The Host whimpered, despite himself.

                “Fighting only causes you pain. If you give in, I can help you.”

At the words “give in,” the Host shot to his feet, hands fisting, and managed to tear the right one free. The Narrative spat and writhed, fangs bared. “Enough!” The Host’s voice was more a sob than a shout. “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of being _used,_ you manipulative bastard. Just _stop!”_

                The silence was choking, absolute, and yet a ripple of rage at his defiance was clear in the spreading Aura. Instinctively, the Host stepped back, cringing. Dark let him, releasing the hand he still held without a struggle.

                The silence continued until the Host could almost swear he could hear his own sweat dripping to the floor. Or were those tears? He couldn’t tell. It became agonizing. The memories began to gnaw at him, again, the years alone behind the reflection foremost.

                Finally, Dark spoke, voice ripping the silence like lazy claws. The Host found himself leaning forward imperceptivity, clinging to the sound, only to shudder at what he said.

“If you wish, I will leave you **alone** , Host.” There was the scrape of a shoe, a faint retreat in the pressure of the Aura, and a very sudden wash of loneliness and despair that had the blind man falling to his knees, wracked with heavy, rib-creaking sobs. _No, no, no. The mirror, again. Not again, please._

                He couldn’t speak anymore, could only cough and struggle to breathe past the pain constricting his chest. The Narrative screeched like nails on a chalkboard… or like breaking glass. Alone. The word felt more painful than a gunshot, and damn if he knew exactly how agonizing those were.

                But then those hands were back, pulling up his tense jaw, smoothing his hair back from his bandaged eyes. “Shhh,” Dark soothed, voice softening. “Dear Host, I would never abandon you. You’re my _friend,_ are you not?” The hand on his jaw shifted to stroking cold knuckles down his tear-stained cheeks.

                The silence threatened to return, and the Host choked out a desperate, _“Yes.”_ Half truthful, and half to just keep that silence at bay. That darkness.

                Dark made a pleased hum in the back of his throat. “I’ve always come back for you. Is this true?”

The Host nodded weakly, bending his jaw into that cold touch like a child seeking comfort. [“Th-the H-Hos-t-t is so s-s-sor-ry-“] Another sob choked him silent, and Dark shushed him, again. “Don’t worry about Narrating, dear Host. Just concentrate on breathing. Let yourself relax, my friend. You do not need to drown in your own words, anymore. **Listen to me.”**

                Obediently, the Host bent his head down, trembling muscles slowly easing as the hand in his hair continued down his back, between his shoulder blades. Cold with the same addictive properties as a dose of morphine followed in the wake of Dark’s fingers, digging through the layers of the trenchcoat, and clothes, cooling his skin.

                Trapped in the last corner of the room, the Narrative twitched once.

The Host reached up a shaking hand to catch hold of the one stroking his cheek, part of him wanting to shove it away, while the rest of him followed suit in softly rubbing the knuckles across his chapped lips. All the while, Dark continued to stroke his back, muttering calming words that the Host could barely understand, yet clung to, letting them wash away his desire to speak.

                Turning his lips into Dark’s palm, he clung to his wrist, still weeping softly. As his lips brushed that cold skin, the Narrative curled in on itself, shrinking, finally being subsumed under the devouring Aura. The Host sighed, the trembling in his limbs ceasing.

                “There,” Dark said, happily. “That’s easier, isn’t it? I know how hard it is when the memories rip at you. Just know that I will always come back, my dear friend. I have no intention of leaving you **alone.** ” Dark’s captured hand cupped his cheek, again, curving around to the back of his neck, tilting it upward. Slowly, inexorably, he drew the blind man back to his feet, pulling free to grip both of his shoulders. Were it not for him, the Host didn’t think he could remain steady.

                The Host stopped struggling completely, allowing Dark to hold him to his silent chest, burying his face in his dress shirt. The silken tie rubbed roughly against his cheek, the starched collar smelling of cologne and bodywash. Unable to use the stifled Narrative, he could only grip tightly to the tweed jacket, his other senses starved for contact now that he could no longer describe the world.

                “Please… I… _the mirror._ ” He couldn’t make a coherent sentence. His mind was screaming at the thought of losing his grip on the other man, and another tremor shook him. Dark only drew him closer, the Aura enfolding chill and thick around his shoulders like the wings of the Devil himself. “None of that, now… Just breathe. **Listen** and breathe… and I’ll help you, dear Host.”

                Host. He kept repeating his newest title. But the Host felt swollen with memories, like an improperly bound book, pages bursting the seams. Cover after cover had been stretched over the old, past lives of the D.A., the Author… leaving the Host. And the memories.

                Dark was clever enough to know that using the newest title often helped to ground him. Drag him back to the present.

                Dark’s fingers pulled away from his shoulders briefly, only to close on the hands the Host pressed to his own collar. Once there, his voice continuing to snake deeper and deeper into the Host’s tormented brain, he began to gently pull off the gloves, one finger at a time. The Host tried to cry out at the feeling of protection being lifted, only to shake again as Dark’s fingers laced coldly with his own, the gloves dangling from the wrist straps like shed skin.

                It was horribly personal, like mercy and a brutal beating, all at once, just with a touch. Cold and purposeful, Dark dragged the Host’s hands down to his own waist, wrapping them around his middle. His voice fell, thick and heavy, over them both, patiently talking the blind man through his hysterics. For a moment, it sounded something deep in his mind, the memory of a much kinder tone, a truly caring voice and touch… He buried his face deeper into the unseen chest, trying not to think that it wasn’t his friend’s, anymore, but _his own._

                Dark’s arms settled around his shoulders, forcing them still, and the Host realized he’d been crying into his front. He was so easily bent to the will of the other ego, and right now, he was almost happy for it. For the moment when the pain was taken away. He was little better than an addict crawling back to a fix.

                And, of course, Dark took advantage. That’s who he was. But he was all the Host had left… And it felt so good to give… in… To not be left _alone_.

                As if he heard the unspoken thought, Dark purred, “Yes. Very good. I’m here, now. Just **let me in.** ” The blind man’s entire body shivered one last time before he dutifully pulled Dark against his front, wanting to wrap himself in that chill embrace.  

**_Let_ **

                His fingers dug under his coat, cold flesh burning against the pads in a swirl of pain and pleasure.

**_Me_ **

                The Host was panting from the strain of fending off the memories, the Aura, the pain. He felt his will crumble with one more stroke of his spine, and folded into the other ego’s kiss.

**_In_ **

                The Aura flexed, rolled and tumbled downwards, and the Host was willingly consumed by the living emptiness. Dark smiled hungrily against his mouth. **“Very good. Now, who do you belong to?”**

“I’m… yours.”

**“ _Yes._ ”**

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo! First story posted on ao3, and it's about my darling Hosty Boi. This is part of my headcanon of him having been the District Attorney, from WKM, before becoming the Author, and then the Host. Also whenever he speaks in [Brackets] is when he's using the Narration.


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